


I Heard A Note (It Started in my Chest and Ended in My Throat)

by TheGreatSporkWielder



Series: Your Songs Remind Me Of Swimming [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Oh my God You guys I wrote fic for a fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatSporkWielder/pseuds/TheGreatSporkWielder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can’t fathom what it is about him, so young and seemingly unremarkable, that calls to her, but it is almost as if she is the one under a spell, and she wonders if this is what it is like for the men who are ensnared by her song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I am totally in love with Chaer's Caleb and Parthenope Stilinksi in this series. OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA. (Well, I guess you do now.) So I wrote this. And Chaer liked it, so we're sticking it in the series, because Chaer is awesome rather than "Okay, Sporky, you do realize you're writing FIC for ANOTHER FIC." 
> 
> Story title is from "Swimming" by Florence and the Machine, because it is Caleb and Parthenope's song.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I would like to go to shore and be your wife._

Parthenope stands on the sandbar, letting the wind flow through her wings and her loose dark hair. She curls her toes into the sand, relishing the gritty bite of each grain and the sharp edges of shells pressing into her feet. She stares out to sea, her song dormant for now, and breathes in the air, heavy with the smell of the ocean, of salt and of death and of home.  It has been many years since she has been to this particular bit of the ocean, but it calls to her in a way that the coastlines of Greece never could and the cool breeze caresses her face like the gentle touch of a trusted lover.

 

When she sees the man strolling alone along the beach, she longs to sing to him, to draw him into the surf and watch as he sinks beautifully deep into the abyss of the waters.

 

But then his eyes land on her, and before she can even realize what’s happening, a different note makes its way out of her throat, calling him to _her_ rather than to the sea.

 

The song works the same way, though, and he slowly trudges his way out to her, unaware of the rocks and shells cutting into his bare flesh, and the tangy scent of his blood fills her nostrils but she amazingly still has no desire to kill him.

 

He stands next to her, and the haze fades from his eyes as the notes of her song fade into the air; and his gaze falls on her, not in fear, but curiosity. She returns the favor and as her eyes wander over his tall form, from his light brown hair wafting gently in the breeze off the ocean, over his gentle face and intelligent eyes and down his strong, muscled body, she suddenly decides that she wants this human; she wants to hold him in her arms in a way other than the watery embrace she gives with her song; she wants him alive and she wants him to be _hers,_ and for reasons she can’t decipher and is not entirely sure she wants to delve into too deeply, she wants to be _his,_ so she opens her mouth once more.

 

_I would like to go to shore and be your wife._

The words are out of her mouth before she realizes exactly what she’s saying, but now that they’re hanging in the air, she has no desire to take them back. His eyes glaze over a bit again, and Parthenope’s lips twist in disappointment. She doesn’t want a slave, she doesn’t want him under her enchantment like she’s done with lovers in the past, so she begins to back away from him, this ordinary, yet somehow dazzlingly beautiful man who doesn’t even know that he will be the first man she’s sung to in a thousand years that has lived to walk away from her, when suddenly his eyes clear and his hand darts out and his strong fingers wrap around her wrist in a firm but gentle grip, and he lays one warm, solid finger across her lips. He smiles at her, and the thought darts across her mind that she wants nothing more than for this human, this utterly insignificant _man_ that she should want dead and drowned and broken at the bottom of the ocean, to look at her like that until he is taken from her by Hades.

 

“Let me take you to dinner first,” he says, and Parthenope assumes from the teasing glint in his eye that ‘dinner’ is some new human courtship ritual, “then maybe we’ll see about getting rings.”

 

His eyes travel over her face and her hair and her wings and Parthenope ridiculously wonders if he thinks she’s beautiful. She can’t fathom what it is about him, so young and seemingly unremarkable, that calls to her, but it is almost as if _she_ is the one under a spell, and she wonders if this is what it is like for the men who are ensnared by her song.

 

She concentrates for a moment and slips her wings into the second plane, and his eyes widen as they disappear. She twists her wrist around to link their fingers, sliding herself into a human guise as she does so, shortening her talons and blunting her teeth. “Dinner,” she says, and she’s careful to keep her voice low and even so as not to pull him under her spell again. “I think I would like that.”

 

He smiles again, and the way his eyes light up sends warmth through her chest. “Great,” he says, and he gently squeezes her fingers, being careful of her fragile, hollow bones.

 

 “What’s your name?” he asks. “If you’re going to be my wife, I should at least know your name, don’t you think?”

 

“Parthenope,” she replies, and when he repeats it, the sound of her name rolling off his tongue sends a thrill shooting down her spine, and she knows she will never tire of hearing it.

 

“My name is Caleb,” he says, and the solid simplicity of the name suits him, and she wonders if the meaning of it suits him as well as the sound.

 

She can’t think of anything to say, and she knows her sisters would laugh and laugh at her if they were here to see her, Parthenope the great and terrible siren, who has sung _countless_ sailors and swimmers to their deaths, tongue-tied by the feel of a man’s hand curling around her own and the gentle caress of his smile, like the sun on her face after a storm has passed.

 

The two of them walk hand-in-hand out of the surf and away from the sea, and for once, Parthenope doesn’t turn back for one last glance at the waves crashing on the shore; doesn’t regret the fact that none who came to the beach today fell prey to her song.

 

All she sees and thinks and feels is Caleb.  And, for now, that’s all she wants. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You could take it off, you know,_ she says, her voice low and solemn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently, this has turned into "Sporky writes scenes from 'Dragged Further Away From the Shore...' from Parthenope's POV."
> 
> Thanks to Chaerring for letting me dip my toes into this wonderful pairing and for actually liking this. =)

Parthenope watches Caleb as he pores over the photographs of the dead young man, his brow furrowing in thought as he runs one strong hand through his hair, and even as satisfaction fills her at the knowledge that the boy drowned and that her darling Thelxiope has started coming into his own as a Siren, she admires the good heart of the man she calls husband.

 

Caleb is treating the death of this boy as he would any other murder, even though the boy was _himself_ a murderer who even tried to kill Caleb’s own son, even as he _knows_ who did it (“I still have to prove it, honey; ‘the ghost of my dead wife witnessed it’ isn’t exactly going to hold up in court,” Caleb says dryly, and Parthenope has to bite her tongue to keep herself from telling him that Thelxiope had witnessed it, too).  

 

Something dark and heavy stirs in her chest, however, when her eyes rest on the gold band still encircling the fourth finger of Caleb’s left hand even though it’s been nearly two years since she died; for some reason, tonight the ring seems to her akin to heavy iron shackles encasing his wrists, and although it pains her to think of him removing it and moving on even as Parthenope stays, she longs to free him from his ties to her, to the past; bindings that she imagines lie heavy on shoulders already bent under so many cares. _You could take it off, you know,_ she says, her voice low and solemn.

 

Caleb looks away from the photos and up at her. “Take what off?” he asks quizzically. The look in his eye says he has no idea what she’s talking about, though he seems wary of the question, as though he’s not entirely sure if he wants to hear her answer.

 

 She purses her lips and settles herself on the chair in front of his desk, staring down at the grain of the oak as though it held the words she was seeking.

 

_Your wedding ring,_ she replies, lightly tracing the patterns of the wood grain with one finger. _You’re a widower._ And oh, how she hates that. Hates that the two of them are no longer on the same plane; that to all but their family, he is alone.

 

Parthenope had allowed herself to be killed to protect her precious son from the Argents, and she would do it again in a heartbeat, but she admits that there are moments when she wishes she was fully corporeal.

 

Caleb is silent for a moment, as though mulling over her words, and Parthenope’s heart constricts at the thought that he just might be considering her suggestion; that she may have to watch as he removes the reminder of his time with her from his hand and takes another woman to his bed, even though she knows that it is selfish of her to want him to herself. He is a human, he is a man, and one such as he deserves better than a cold empty bed.

 

And then he blurts, “Why would you say that?” before leaning over and resting his hand as best he can on top of hers, and the feel of him, so alive and warm and _real_ against her ghostly form distracts her so that she almost misses him speaking again.

 

“ _Parthenope._  Parthenope, you’re not leaving, are you?”

 

Both the panic in his voice and the question surprise her.

 

_No,_ she answers, a bit bemused. _Where would I go even if I wanted to?_

_  
_

“I don’t know,” he answers, and he still looks as though he doesn’t quite believe her, “but why would you tell me to take it off if you’re not leaving?”

 

The fact that he seems so oblivious to her train of thought embarrasses her, and her shoulders twitch in a shrug as she looks back down at the desk.

 

“Honey...Tell me.”

 

She refuses to look at him, even as his cajoling tone coaxes the words out of her. _Melissa McCall is a lovely woman,_ she says, and it’s true. The mother of Thelxiope’s best friend _is_ beautiful, with laughing dark eyes and an infectious smile, and Parthenope tries not to think about how well she would look on Caleb’s arm.

 

 “ _Melissa?_ ” Caleb says, and Parthenope can almost hear the incredulous laughter in his voice. “I’m not interested in Melissa.  _At all._  Never have been.”

 

She stiffens at his tone, knowing that he wants to laugh at her for her thoughts; he can tell that she is serious, however, and is too polite to show his amusement at her misery.

 

_It’s an easy conclusion to make,_ she argues, still not meeting his eyes. _You’re both in service professions that deal with trauma. You’re both single in the eyes of the world. Your sons are best friends and therefore, you’re frequently thrown toget--_

_  
_

“Stop.” Caleb interrupts her stubbornly. “Honey, just stop. You’re forgetting a very important thing. I married _you_. Forever. No takebacks. No changes just because your state of being isn’t the same.”

 

It’s ridiculous how much his simple declaration warms her heart, and yet breaks it at the same time. _I’m not a real wife any longer,_ she says quietly, and that is the worst thing about her current state. They can no longer truly touch; she cannot wrap her arms and wings around him and pull him to her until she can feel his heartbeat thrumming against her own and his warm breath against the curve of her neck.

 

Caleb, beautiful, loving man that he is, should not have to spend the rest of his days alone with naught but the frosty shadow of his wife when he can spend it warm with a woman who is fully alive. Even as the thought crosses Parthenope’s mind and she knows its truth, the desire to go and rip out Melissa McCall’s throat for being beautiful and good and _available_ and even _potentially_ touching _her_ Caleb races through her mind and she feels her teeth beginning to sharpen.

 

She starts slightly when Caleb’s fingers tilt her chin towards him, and she reluctantly meets his eyes, and his resolute gaze softens a bit when he sees the misery in her own stormy one.

 

“Nonsense,” he says with a gentle firmness. “You’re my wife until I say you’re not, and that will never happen. You’re stuck with me, longer than you thought, probably.”

 

Parthenope once again marvels at the wonder that is this human that she wed, and she feels her doubts and bloodlust fleeing at his words; and when he relaxes and smiles at her, she can’t stop herself from smiling back at him.

 


End file.
